His preaching is still a distinct memory. When I remember him speaking, I see his face lifted toward the ceiling, his hands clasped in front of him, his white beard flowing over his arms. He could talk a thousand miles an hour, or so it seemed to me. A person could lose himself in that voice. It was as if you were enveloped in love and acceptance. In his preaching he wasn’t going anywhere particular. He had no agenda. He simply exalted in holy words, as if he were glad himself to be part of such a great thing.
Grandmother Eicher could chatter during the week about as fast as Grandfather Eicher did on Sundays. She’d say hi, give out a long stream of words, and then bustle on. There was always something going on at the house.
She came from Arthur, Illinois. Grandfather lived in Davies County, Indiana. My guess is they met when he visited Arthur on weekends for weddings or funerals, typical Amish reasons to travel to another town. Grandmother had a great sorrow in life. She’d lost her first love under tragic circumstances before she could marry him. She never forgot that.
The Eicher men worked during the day, either in the fields or on construction jobs, so my visits to Grandfather Eicher’s place were always populated with women.
Aunt Rosemary, the youngest aunt on the Eicher side was petite, the prettiest of the sisters. She would end up marrying a rather cultured Amish man from one of the trackless Northern Ontario Amish communities.
Aunt Nancy could move about as fast as Grandfather and Grandmother could talk. She was the shy one, even with us children. She would tilt her head in that peculiar way of hers, as if to deflect some incoming missile. She would marry one of the Stoll cousins, a man who stuttered as I did, although not as severely. Perhaps she had her own sorrows from which her heart reached out to a fellow sufferer.
Aunt Martha was the jolly one, always smiling and happy. I never saw her that she wasn’t bubbling with joy. She was also a diabetic from early childhood. I remember she gave herself insulin shots in the leg, and allowed us children to watch. I knew nothing then of the sufferings of a diabetic, and still don’t, except from secondhand sources. But it could not have been easy for her.
She never married. I don’t think I ever heard of a suitor, either. It was just one of those things. Her kidneys gave out in her early fifties, and she soon chose to forgo treatment rather than hire a driver to make the long trips into town. Her decision was influenced perhaps by the expense or simply from the weariness of suffering.
It must have taken great courage to walk so willingly over to the other side. But then I can imagine Aunt Martha facing it with cheerful acceptance. I suppose she was welcomed home with more joy than many of the earth’s great ones. I know she lived close to the Father’s heart.
Though most of my childhood I grew up in Honduras surrounded by the vigorous intellectual life of the Stoll relatives, it was from here, at Grandfather Eicher’s home, that I draw the characters of my Amish fiction. The white walls, the long dinner table, the open living room, the small, spotless bathrooms, the yard outside with its swing tied high in the tree. And above all from the feeling of simple living. These people profess to be nobody special. There’s a minister in the house, and later a bishop, but you wouldn’t know it. They simply laughed a lot.
I’ve not always lived like that. Being honest, I’ve hardly ever lived like that. Life has been a hard climb, and each peak only reveals another. In those moments when I come home, this is where I come to. To Grandfather Eicher’s house. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am.
Working with the Threshing Ring
Philip Stoll
And your threshing shall reach unto the vintage, and the vintage shall reach unto the sowing time: and ye shall eat your bread to the full, and dwell in your land safely (Leviticus 26:5).
LIFE ON OUR FARM WAS GOOD. THERE WERE ALWAYS ENOUGH THINGS going on that changed with the seasons to keep things lively. And today was threshing day at Uncle Joe’s place right across from us. We quickly finished breakfast as I wanted to arrive first and begin to spread out the shocks so they could dry in the morning sunshine. That was always fun.
Today I’d be one of the pitchers. This was a job I really enjoyed. We’d all work together as a team and see how many wagonloads we could get in for the day. Our team of trusty Percherons, Bird and Babe, would stay home as they’d be needed here on the farm. There would be plenty of others who would arrive at Uncle Joe’s place with their wagons and horses.
I’d still harness Bird and Babe, I figured. They’d come in with the cows earlier, and this was a job I loved. So much so that my parents teased me about it. They said my name Philip, “lover of horses,” couldn’t have been more fitting. That was me.
Bird and Babe were a hardworking and safe team. They were a delight for my younger siblings to drive. So now I quickly grabbed Bird’s collar and slipped it over her head, then did the same for Babe’s. I made sure the mares’ necks were rubbed down and had no soft puffs or sores. Dad had taught me how to wash their shoulders with warm salt water. That way there was little chance they’d ever get collar sores.
“The righteous man,” Dad told us often, quoting Proverbs 12:10, “regardeth the life of his beast.”
After harnessing the horses I hitched them to our wagon parked in front of the house. I knew Bird and Babe would wait there patiently until they were needed by my siblings. So out the lane I went in my bare feet with my pitchfork in hand.
At Uncle Joe’s place I was greeted by another neighbor and friend, Jacob Reimer. He was younger than me, but we had grown close as friends. I was delighted to head to the fields with him. There we began to spread out the sheaves. We only did this until we had enough for the morning’s work. By the afternoon the shocks would have dried all the way through.
Setting up the shocks earlier in the season had also been a rewarding time. We used 11 sheaves and began with a bundle in the middle with four more set around that. This was all done at a slight angle so they placed equal pressure on the center. We followed this with four more on the sides and two for the roof. We fanned out the ones on top to shed most of the rain. An additional value from a shock like this is that enzymes are added to the grain. It’s little wonder that with the coming of the combine and modern farming practices our health is on the decline.
As Jacob and I worked, we speculated who would show up first with a wagon so we could begin to load. Our attention was soon distracted when we discovered a skunk had taken up residence in a corn shock along Catfish Creek. Ever so politely we gave Mr. Skunk the freedom to decide when the appropriate time was for him to wander off on his merry way. In the meantime, we took up work in a different area.
Moments later there was the distant rumble of an approaching wagon. Surely it has to be Uncle Mark, for he drives like Jehu of old, I thought. And presently a Belgian team galloped down the road, proving me correct. Uncle Mark soon arrived and tied his team of steeds then strode across the field at a fast pace.
“Good morning,” he said, full of cheer as he began to help us.
There’s nothing lazy or laid-back about this uncle of mine, and we looked forward to loading his wagon. There’s also never a dull moment or a slow one with Uncle Mark. He’s the one who sees humor in our desperation to keep up with the sheaves that he sends flying in from every angle while he loads the wagon.
We soon began and several wagonloads later, the hot sun drove Jacob and me to seek a refreshing drink of water served in the shade of a giant maple. But then here came Uncle Mark again, hollering for us to come out of the shade and load another wagon. After another quick swallow we joined him, and the sheaves flew again. Uncle Mark was on the wagon this time. We were determined to cover him up. But as quickly as we threw the sheaves up, just as quickly he had them spread.
I whispered to Jacob, “Hey, let’s both jab into this standing shock and heave all eleven up at once.”
So with a great grunt we managed the feat, then rushed to add more sheaves before Uncle Mark could recover.
“Boys!” he
hollered. “Slow down.” Which was just the reward we wanted.
We laughed as we relished the fact we could, with a united effort, bog him down.
By lunchtime we were tired and scrambled on an empty wagon for the trip to the house where we washed up. Aunt Laura and her girls had prepared mashed potatoes, gravy, corn, and potato salad for lunch. But best of all were the chocolate whoopee pies and homemade ice cream with chocolate topping for dessert. We all ate heartily, and afterward took a short rest out on the lawn.
When we went back to work, I was assigned the horrible task of spreading the straw in the loft. This is a very dirty job with lots of dust. But also a job that needed to be done. So I looked forward to the afternoon break when I could come down and get a nice, refreshing breeze blowing in my face. All the while we enjoyed cold watermelon and more chocolate whoopee pies.
Then, oh wonder of wonders, I got to go out to the fields again.
Later, when chore time rolled around, our crew got smaller, but we renewed our efforts. Our goal was to complete another small field that day at yet another farm, with all the straw in the mow and the fields ready to grow a lush stand of hay that had been seeded with the oat sheaves.
As the sun began to sink we loaded the last of the oats and stared down the road to the threshing machine. Our hearts were gladdened with yet another job well done, our goal accomplished. When we work together like this, what great rewards can be gleaned. Truly the joy of sharing and loving each other above ourselves is a wonderful, rewarding life lived for the Lord.
My Scary Day of Silo Filling
Philip Stoll
And even to your old age I am he; and even to hoar hairs will I carry you: I have made, and I will bear; even I will carry, and will deliver you (Isaiah 46:4).
DAYLIGHT FAST APPROACHED AS THE STOLL FAMILY DESERTED THEIR comfortable beds to begin a new day. At 4:30 a.m. it was high time to be in the barn and get the milking under way. With more than 70 goats to milk by hand, feed, and water (plus milk for the goat kids), there was a great need that we all work together.
Dad often was heard to say, “Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.”
This proverb has been impressed upon each of us from an early age. So as the morning progressed we hurried about. I quickly gave the milking does their hay and then checked for any new babies born overnight. Lo and behold, I found a doe with babies all around her. I kept counting and found it hard to grasp when the number came to seven. We had never had more than quadruplets before. So I got busy and made sure all of them had been able to eat breakfast. While I did this, the news spread rapidly of this unusual occurrence, and several of my siblings gathered.
Meanwhile, the chores continued. The milking hadn’t stopped, and Dad was taking care of our one family cow. There were also calves to be fed and the chickens tended to. For all this activity, we only had the main kerosene pressure lantern and two small hurricane lamps. But we made do. Gideon, my oldest brother, helped me harness a team of our horses, Queen and Black Beauty. Black Beauty was high-spirited most of the time and Gideon wasn’t too fond of her, so he took Queen. Talking gently and soothingly I set to work on getting Black Beauty’s harness on.
When we finished, we all headed for the house where Mom’s wholesome breakfast awaited us. This morning Mom had biscuits and hamburger gravy waiting with grapefruit and fresh whole milk. After we ate, we gathered in the living room for devotions. Dad read a chapter and expounded on the Scripture. We sang two songs after that. Kneeling for prayer, Dad earnestly asked for all his children’s safety, and also for the missionaries working in other lands. Little did we realize what the day was to hold for me, or the power of prayer.
With devotions finished, my siblings still in school hurried out the door for the schoolhouse up the road. I ran out to the barn to hitch Queen and Black Beauty to the wagon and be on my way. I planned to help two of our neighborhood newlywed couples for the day—Wayne and Roseanna and Harold and Lillian. Both young families lived on the 80-acre farm behind us.
I drove our frisky horses down their long lane. As I crossed the culvert I eyed every inch of the creek line to see if I might spot muskrats. I was anxious to run my own traps once the pelts were prime. The field southwest of the lane and along Catfish Creek was where we would be getting our corn to fill the silo today. I figured if we worked hard maybe we could finish. The air was quite fresh this morning, and with no frost on the ground we could begin work sooner.
Harold had been my seventh and eighth grade teacher. He was also my first cousin and a close friend. Now he came out of the barn with his team of three horses and we headed into the field where the binder sat. After a cheery greeting, we hitched his horses to the binder and with the arrival of Nathaniel, Harold’s youngest brother, we were ready to begin.
With Harold on the binder, I drove the team on the wagon alongside the loader. Nathaniel stood ready to stack the bundles as they arrived. There’s always a feeling of accomplishment as one keeps the wagon team at just the right spot under the loader in order to give the fellow on the wagon the least amount of work. I exalted in the joy of the job as the morning sunshine basked us with its early rays. The corn was still dew-drenched and the smells were fresh. We traveled up and down the long rows of standing corn. When the wagon was nearly loaded, we cheered at the sight of Harold’s brother David arriving with another wagon and team to help us. We finished Nathaniel’s load, and I jumped off to climb on David’s wagon. I greeted him heartily and asked, “Do you want to load or try your hand at driving?”
“Why don’t you drive?” David answered. “I’ll load to warm up from the chilly drive over here.”
So I drove alongside the binder and the next wagon started to fill. This team wasn’t as spirited. I had my hands full urging them to keep an appropriate speed. I also didn’t want to work David harder than necessary by being in the wrong place with the wagon. As we rounded the back side of the field, two more of our crew arrived, twin brothers Daniel and James, and we were complete for the day.
We rotated after a few loads and I loaded a wagon for a change. When we unloaded at the silage cutter, Harold made sure I knew that if the bundles got stuck, under no circumstance was I to jump on the web to get the corn unstuck. He warned me that if I fell and the plug began to move I could end up getting badly hurt and even killed.
But all went well on the load. We only had one partial plug. I dutifully jumped off the wagon and got it started from the ground. Afterward I headed back to the field for another load. All of this was done with no mishaps. Normal and safe started to become routine.
But as the day wore on, I grew more weary. Perhaps that’s why I lost my good sense and became careless. Because when I got another plug, I ignored Harold’s earlier warning and lightly jumped on the web and then back off again to unplug it. This way I knew I wouldn’t lose any time. I threw on the bundles at a reckless pace and everything seemed fine. I thought I had stumbled on an efficient way to unplug the bundles without having to jump to the ground each time.
Soon I got even bolder and in so doing, I lost my balance on the web and fell forward headfirst, headed right for the cutters. The fright I felt was awful, and I could think of no way to get off in time, until I thought of the overhead safety bar situated above the twirling blades. I threw up my hands, and oh joy, the web hit reverse and emptied me and the bundles on the cement under the wagon. I lay there for a moment in shock. Finally I jumped up and put the web in forward again. I was afraid the others in the field would have heard the tractor rev and ask what had happened. But they kept on working, and I headed out to the field.
Once I arrived, James looked me over and announced that I looked tired. “Time to drive the team again,” he said. I was just grateful he didn’t ask what had happened to me.
After lunch I took a turn at packing down the silage and was unprepared for Harold’s pointed question. “I thought the cutter ran empty longer than normal this forenoon when you wer
e unloading. Did something go wrong?”
Looking at the ground, I replied, “Yes. I started to jump on the web to unplug it, since that seemed much faster. But I ended up falling headfirst on the web. I only reversed it just in time.”
I glanced at Harold and noticed he was quite pale.
“Philip,” he said, “God still has something important for you to do. He spared you when you were within inches of being chopped up. How awful I would have felt for being responsible for your death. I trust you won’t do that ever again.”
Harold had a fair amount of dampness around his eyes as he spoke. And I was a much chided boy with a lot to think about. The greatness of God’s mercy in saving my life swept over me. The day seemed brighter, clearer, and warmer. I even sang as sometime later the wagon bumped back out to the field. It all seemed like a fitting response that day, and God has given me the desire to serve Him faithfully wherever He may call.
Babies Don’t Wear Watches
Esther Weaver
But thou art he that took me out of the womb: thou didst make me hope when I was upon my mother’s breasts (Psalm 22:9).
IT’S 1:50 A.M. I SLOWLY WAKE UP TO MY HUSBAND’S DEEP BREATHING beside me. Bright headlights stream through the slatted blinds. Is that a car going by, or is it someone pulling in the driveway? No, I decide optimistically, surely it’s only a car passing by. Seconds later, my heart rate hits the roof. Beep! Beep! Beep! Three shrill blasts from a car horn rip the night air. This sounds all too familiar. But why tonight? Why must new babies come in the middle of the night?
Six weeks ago my mother-in-law, Ella Weaver, who is also a midwife, underwent major hip surgery. Her recovery has been fantastic, but she still doesn’t have her full strength back, so she needs occasional assistance with the births. Daisy, Ella’s youngest daughter, and I offered to help Ella when she needs us. And most of the babies we’ve helped with were born during the night. So either the babies don’t know how to tell time, or they just don’t care how much they inconvenience us. Of course I’m beginning to believe the latter. Could this be the reason my peaceful night is being so rudely interrupted?
A View from the Buggy Page 20